A Rose In The Rain
by Little Miss Molly
Summary: AikkaxEva Someone's dreaming...and what a dream it is.


**Title:** A Rose In The Rain  
**Author:** Der Metzgermeister  
**Disclaimer:** kfghjfjhfjhgjhkfdkjhb  
**Summary:** Someone's dreaming...and what a dream it is.  
**Rating:** M  
**Notes:**  
Because a fan of 'Black Sun Rising' on the OSR forums wanted to know more about the "dreams" Aikka had during the Great Race...

This is heavily based on the music video for the Cradle of Filth song, 'Nymphetamine'. 0: Go watch it, and you'll catch the similarities.

Any OOC-ness is because this is a DREAMMMMMM. O-0 It ain't really them.

* * *

He dreamt he was on a path.

The walls were stone and the way was stone, his footsteps marked by skulls and white flowers. The ground was cold, and his feet were bare—he didn't know why—and fragments of bone dug into his heels.

Soon it came to pass that he came to a small clearing. A swing hung from the sky, its ropes wrapped in flowers and ivy. And _she_ sat on the swing, a gown black as the night billowing about her frame. The fabric was thin, clinging to her body, and Aikka could plainly see that she was naked underneath. She was laughing, her voice sweet and pleasant. His perfect Princess.

The atmosphere changed: the face of his Princess was flushed, her eyelids fluttering. The thin fabric slid back and forth over her nipples, the sensation awaking forbidden desires in her. Believing herself to be alone, she freed one hand from the swing, touching her breasts before her fingers trailed over her stomach, slipping between her legs, arching against her own touch. Aikka's hands clenched the bark. With a groan he pressed himself against the tree, rubbing slightly, seeking to relieve some of the pressure he felt gathering inside him. He knew he should leave; but yet, he could not bring himself to tear his eyes away from her. So beautiful she looked in the moonlight, her pale skin illuminated by the glow.

Suddenly she turned to him, gazing directly at him, as though she could see him; she _could _see him. With a frightened cry she leapt from the swing, running barefoot from the haven and into the unknown, as Aikka burst from his hiding place behind her. _"Wait, please!"_ He cried. _"Do not go!"_ But still she ran; there was naught Aikka could do but to run after her. Through moors and forests, passing by in a blur all around him as his heart continued to pound with desire.

Perhaps it was the run; perhaps it was the passion; perhaps it was the air. With every step the world grew hotter and hotter, becoming truly unbearable. Without so much as a pause, Aikka unhooked his armor, tossing it carelessly aside, his shirt soon to follow. As he had hoped, the breeze against his naked flesh offered some relief; but not enough. Already the temperature had grown unbearable once more. The bands on his arm and waist were unbuckled and discarded, the fabric on his arms billowing away without anything to hold it, as did his silken pants, threatening to trip him up until he kicked them off.

He was in nothing but his skin now—still running, still searching; still burning. He could swear he felt her around him, circling like a hawk hunting its prey.

His feet slid suddenly beneath him, the rough dirt suddenly replaced with absolute smoothness. He had come to a small oasis: a pool of crystal clear water, fed by small streams which flowed over the smooth stones surrounding it. With a shout, all dignity and upbringing forgotten, he dove in; splashing about in the water, screaming in frustration as the drops evaporated into steam before they could touch him. Overtaken, he crawled from the pool and fell to the ground; his flesh was truly on fire. The cold stone beneath him did little aide, and he writhed on the ground, aching for some way to ease the agony of the burn. He clawed at his arms; bits of flesh tore away beneath his fingernails, and he bled. Groans of absolute torture escaped his throat and his eyes fluttered closed in defeat, waiting for the flames to consume him, and he would die.

_"Aikka..."_

At the sound of his name Aikka sat bolt upright, his heart pounding in his chest. All around him the breeze encircled, a voice upon it; _her_ voice.

_"Prince Aikka..."_

From oblivion her hands came upon him, touching his bare chest with feather-light fingertips, pushing him back onto the wet stone. The skin beneath her hands turned suddenly cold, sending shivers throughout his entire body; the burn was fading.

_"Lie back, my Prince..."_

The gown billowed in the gentle breeze, lifted away from her body, suddenly small enough to be held in both hands. She straddled his chest—he could feel her—wrapping the gossamer fabric around his head, blindfolding him.

_"Let me relieve you."_

Her lips caressed his his throat—he could feel sharp teeth behind her lips. Wordless whispers passed over his skin, which even he could not hear. Slowly her cold lips began a trail of ice over his chest, across his hard, flat stomach; lower. He hissed and bit his lip, knocking his head back against the rock—arching into her as she touched him with her sweet lips. From below, there came a coy laugh, the frigid air of her breath washing across his skin.

_"Come to me, my Prince."_

And just like that, she was gone.

Crying out he rose, tearing the gown from his eyes in search of his Princess. It regained its full form, landing on the ground in a pool, dissolving into liquid upon contact. The blackness flowed over his feet and into the oasis, staining the water the color of night. The moon above reflected against the dark, glassy surface: somehow, it looked more like two moons, one full and shining, the other a dull crescent.

Once more he was running, but this time his Princess would not escape. In the briars he caught her by the wrist, turning her sharply to face him. For a moment he stood, his eyes drinking in the sight of her perfect, naked body, her breasts delicate and rosy, heaving with the exertion of the chase. He met her gaze—her eyes the color of fresh blood.

_"You will not escape me again."_

Her only response was to smile coyly, and press her lips against his.

Within moments she was crushed in Aikka's embrace, his mouth tearing carnivorously at hers, overcome with his desire. Fearing she might leave again, he seized her by the arms with bruising force, throwing her to the ground. She did not cry out; indeed, she laughed, opening her arms to him. In a mere moment he was upon her, against her, _inside_ of her, kissing those sweet lips again and again.

But once more she was taken away from him. For with a shout he awoke in the night, sweat-soaked linens flying from his body to the floor in the momentum. His chest heaved; his head spun. His lips formed a single word—a name:

"Molly..."


End file.
